A to Z – April – 2026 – P

P is for – Princess

…

It was a mad dash from the office to the airport, and like most times when it came to personal travel, I just made it, or I was five minutes too late.

Of course, this time, I had a legitimate reason. Because I had to clear the vacation days, I needed to go home and be with my mother, whose health had taken a turn for the worse, and it meant visiting HR.

And in HR was Adeline, the woman I had met at a staff function the week before and had spent a rather interesting evening. I had a strict policy of not dating work colleagues, but for some reason, she seemed different.

It was not a date, and we had parted without any commitment to continue, though something inside me told me it might be worth pursuing.

I had to sign the vacation form, and she was the duty officer at the desk. In the end, I had to run, but she had asked to exchange phone numbers. I had no idea how long I would be gone, a few days or much longer, given my mother’s doctor wasn’t sure himself.

All I knew was that her time was almost up. Stage four cancer was as unpredictable as it was relentless. The only positive is that it has given me the time to get home and spend those last few weeks with her.

My brother and sister were on the other side of the world and wouldn’t be able to make it, though they were trying to get home. The thing was that our mother was not all that keen for them to return. It was an odd response and one I couldn’t understand.

Perhaps I would find out when I got there.

…

On a trip that involved two planes, one made at least a dozen times over the past two years without a glitch, was expected, discounting the circumstances, to be equally as easy.

Wrong.

It was like the universe was trying to tell me something. A surplus bag left behind stopped my outward-bound first flight, delaying it to the point it was scrubbed, and everyone had to return the next day.

That killed the connecting flight, so that when I was finally on the ground, the second flight wasn’t leaving for another eleven hours.

I finally got home two days after I started out. I was glad she was not at death’s door, or I would have missed seeing her alive and have those last few meaningless words we say to people who are dying.

It was a given that I would automatically ask how she was, knowing she was never going to feel well again. And yet there was no stopping us because we had been indoctrinated a long time ago with such human concern.

She was propped up in a comfortable chair by the fire, reading a book when I got there, fighting off the beginnings of a snowstorm, and driving an unfamiliar car.

At best, I was expecting to be snowed in. My mother’s last conversation over the phone while I was waiting for the second plane was upbeat, though I could hear the pain in her voice. She was on regulated morphine shots to manage that same pain.

I dumped my bag at the foot of the stairs and went into the large living space. In winter, it could get very cold, but it was more the views in spring and summer that made up for the other two seasons.

“How could you read a book when the falling snow is so breathtakingly beautiful?”

In more ways than one. The intense cold outside could make breathing difficult. It used to affect me when I was younger.

“Richie, at last.”

I went over and gave her a hug.

Mrs Davis, her carer, came in carrying a tray with tea and coffee. My mother had never acquired the taste for coffee, perhaps because of her family origins in England.

She was, she always said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, that she should have been a princess, and only the thought of all that pomp and ceremony that came with the title had put her off, running away to America and a different sort of life.

And when we asked her what she meant, she would always say, ‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out’. But it never escaped me that Dad always used to call her his ‘Princess’ with one of his enigmatic smiles, along with their story on how she came second in the Prom Queen stakes and therefore would always be his Princess.

I never understood what he meant, and the others just thought he was simply crazy in love with her.

It was the sort of love I wanted to find, but so far, I had not.

Mrs Davis poured the tea and left us. I sat in the seat beside her, where Dad always sat. It was strange that he always called the living room ‘the throne room’.

“You were lucky. The airport just closed. The snow is going to set in for a few days.”

God’s will, perhaps.

“Any word from the others?” I could see the iPad beside her, a sure sign she had been video conferencing with my brother and sister.

“I told them it’s not urgent. They have obligations and children to consider. Unlike you, free as a bird.”

It was a blessing and, ironically, it was a curse. She had hoped that she would have at least one grandchild from each of her children, and I had disappointed her.

There had been several candidates over the years, but I was not what they were looking for, and in the end, I decided not to try. If it was meant to happen, it would.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’d rather she were perfect for you than second best.”

“You were, according to Dad, and that’s all I ask for.”

“You’re not a second-best sort of person, Richie. She’s out there. You just haven’t met her yet.”

It was the same every time I came home. It saddened me that this would be the last time and that it was going to be hard to remain upbeat.

…

Several weeks passed, and it was very hard to watch her slowly decline. Her bed was set up in the living room, making it easier for her to get from the bed to the seat

A steady stream of visitors showed how much the townsfolk adored her, everyone coming to pay their respects while she had the strength.

Now it was deserting her, so she remained in bed and held court from there. A different colour dressing gown for each day of the week.

Our conversations were of childhood memories, hers and mine, though there were hardly any of mine that she wasn’t aware of, and a whole swathe of hers I had no idea about. I don’t think any of us did, Dad included, and it sounded to me like she had another life before this one. I didn’t believe in reincarnation, but the stories, well, they sounded too real to be just in her imagination.

She had lived a life that was quite literally beyond imagination.

Until…

A few days later, a visitor came. Not your average visitor, but someone who looked vaguely familiar, someone I’d seen before.

Someone who called her mama.

She sat down opposite my mother and took her hand in hers. It was like turning on a light switch and watching the brightness of an illuminated globe light up the room.

“Anastasia?”

“Yes, mama. It is me. It is your time.”

Mother looked at me with watery eyes and a big smile, happy in a way she had not been for a long time. “I asked Anastasia to come see you. I told her you were a good boy.”

Whatever that meant.

She then closed her eyes for so long I thought she had passed, finally content that her time had come, but then she said, with conviction, “You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.”

At first, I thought she was going to tell me one of her fairy tales, but she was not. She had opened her eyes and was looking straight at me.

“What more could there be?” I asked.

“More than you could ever imagine.”

…

Then, it was like a light went on in my head. The woman sitting next to my mother, holding her hand, looking angelic.

The Princess Anastasia. I’d just been reading about her, from some obscure country tucked away in the mountainous region of Europe, a place few knew about and even less could visit.

And then looking between the two, the uncanny resemblance between the two.

“You can see it, can’t you?” Anastasia said.

“You are related.”

“She is my mother, yes. She was banished many, many years ago, and I have only just found her. You are her son. Her dying wish was for you to return to her homeland, and if you honour her dying wish, I will be very happy to take you there.”

My mother looked at me with teary eyes. “Will you?”

“What about the others?”

“Then need not know, and it would be of little concern to them. They are not of your blood. You are the son of a prince and a princess, Richard, and meant for greater things. Please tell me you will return with Anastasia.” She reached out for my hand, and when I took it in mine, it felt cold. Her glow was beginning to fade, and the end was near.

To be honest, I thought she was off her rocker, but the earnestness in her tone, and the fact that I was sitting next to a real, live princess, and apparently my sister. I think I just nodded dumbly.

With that, she passed, and though I was not to know then, a whole new world awaited me.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 91

Day 91 – The writing sprint inspired by an event years before

…

The Myth of the “Overnight” Success: What Jack Kerouac Can Teach Us About Creativity

We love the narrative of the “lightning bolt.” We want to believe that great art—the kind that defines a generation—is born in a flash of divine inspiration.

Take Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. The legend goes that he wrote the entire, sprawling masterpiece in one manic, caffeine-fueled, three-week sprint. It’s the ultimate romantic story for writers: lock yourself in a room, feed paper into a typewriter, and emerge with a bestseller.

But if we stop there, we miss the most important part of the process. We ignore the seven years of gasoline, asphalt, jazz clubs, and heartbreak that happened before the paper hit the typewriter.

The Seven-Year “Incubation”

Before that legendary three-week sprint in 1951, Kerouac wasn’t just sitting around waiting for a muse. He was living. He was riding buses across the American landscape, working on railroads, observing the rhythm of the beatniks, and—crucially—filling notebooks with sketches and observations.

He was conducting a seven-year masterclass in experience.

When people ask, “Is it really possible to write a bestseller in three weeks?” the answer is both yes and no. You can write the draft in three weeks, but you cannot live the life in three weeks.

Kerouac didn’t “write” On the Road in three weeks; he transcribed seven years of accumulated soul-searching. The writing was the harvest; the seven years were the soil, the rain, and the seasons.

Why Your “Sprints” Are Only as Good as Your “Strolls”

Many aspiring writers get stuck because they try to force the sprint without doing the strolling. They want the climax of the creative process without the tedious, often messy work of gathering material.

If you are feeling blocked, perhaps you aren’t lacking “inspiration.” Perhaps you are simply lacking input.

Creativity is a digestive process. You consume the world—people, conversations, nature, failure, thrill—and your subconscious ferments these experiences until they are ready to be poured out. If you try to sprint when your internal tank is empty, you’ll find yourself staring at a blank cursor, terrified.

The Power of the “Controlled Spill”

Kerouac’s three-week sprint was successful because it was a controlled spill. He had spent years thinking about the story, dreaming about the characters, and refining his voice. By the time he rolled that 120-foot scroll of paper into his typewriter, the story was already finished in his mind. He just had to get out of its way.

Here is how you can apply the “Kerouac Method” to your own work:

Stop Trying to Sprint Every Day: You will burn out. Use your “off-days” to experience life. Collect curiosities. Write down fragments of dialogue. Store up the images that move you.
Trust the Incubation Period: The best ideas often sit in the back of your brain for years. Don’t force them onto the page until they feel heavy, until they are practically vibrating and demanding to be let out.
Prepare the Environment: When the time comes to sprint, clear the deck. Eliminate the distractions. Make the physical act of writing as seamless as possible. Kerouac famously used a continuous scroll to avoid the “interruption” of changing pages. Find your version of that.
Accept the Mess: A three-week sprint is not about perfection; it’s about velocity. Leave the editing for a later date. Your goal during the sprint is to capture the lightning, not to organise the storm.

The Lesson

The myth of the three-week bestseller is a dangerous one if you think it means you can skip the hard work of living. But it is an empowering one if you realise that your life is your research.

Every conversation you have, every mile you travel, and every heartbreak you endure is a brick in the foundation of your future masterpiece. Spend your years gathering the material, and then, when the pressure becomes too much to hold inside, give yourself permission to run.

You might just find that you’re capable of writing your own version of brilliance.

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 18

The problems of the day before are gone, and I get back to the plan.

Today I have concentrated on the side excursion I’d come up with the other day and thought it could wait, but I’m at a point, further on, where I need to have this written to feed into the main story.

I’m in two minds about how this should be written because I had two possible outcomes sketched out two possible outcomes, and one leads to quite a different ending.

The plan, son, the plan!

I edit it as it should be, and the other outcome gets crossed out, and the outline is sent to the ‘to be written sometime in the future’ pile. It’s a strong enough ending to power its own story.

I might even become a sequel.

Hang on, don’t get carried away. Get this one finished first.

A to Z – April – 2026 – O

O is for – Outcast

…

I hated reunions. My family insisted on one every five years, and the only excuse for missing one was if you were dead.

I tried to pretend that I didn’t get the invitation, but my older sister Elaine flew to the middle of nowhere, as she called it, to take me back. She even paid for the ticket.

She was so rich I was surprised she hadn’t come down in the family jet. Yes, they had one, and yes, she could fly it.

I hated her.

I was the black sheep. I was the one who was always in trouble, married the wrong girl, invested in scams, and ended up in a shack with no one and nothing to show for my life. Oh yes, and a nothing job as a security guard. I just had to turn up and go home.

It didn’t matter how many times I mentioned this, Elaine said that it didn’t matter. Family was everything. I would have accepted that, except for her tone. It was the same one she used when admonishing me when my marriage fell apart.

It’s not your fault, but who else is there to blame?

Elaine lived in New York, Merilyn lived in San Francisco, Roger lived in Albuquerque, and Sam, the family hero, lived in Washington. Every one of my brothers and sisters was a high achiever.

My father, joking, he would say, would sometimes ask whether or not my mother had had an affair, and I was the result of it. She didn’t quite see the joke in it, but I could. He was happy I was out of sight and out of mind.

Elaine swept into a room, followed by adulation.

I stayed at the door and barely got a glance.

Until my father saw me. “James. I’m so glad you could make it.” He didn’t move from his seat.

What he meant to say, as he had in the past, was ‘look what the cat dragged in’ It was a surprise he hadn’t.

My mother looked over, and I could see just that momentary sigh, as if it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I’d just stayed away.

Then smiled and said, “James, you made it. I thought you had something you couldn’t get away from?”

True. I was using a non-existent conference as an excuse. “This was more important,” I said

Her look told me it wasn’t.

Roger and Marilyn had already arrived. The Star Act, Sam, would make the grand entrance, outdoing Elaine. It was a competition, and he had no chance, even if he was elected president.

Roger came over. “You know this isn’t going to end well. You look well.” No handshake, no hug, nothing. It was like we were not related.

“Nice to see you too, bro.”

He winced. Yes, I can read his mind, ‘don’t call me bro, you asshole, and we’re definitely not related’.

Merilyn was a little better. She gave me a two-second hug. She was the second-lowest high achiever, one rung above me, and not married yet.

Mother’s looks covered her sentiment, “You’re getting older, and it’s harder when you have children at that age”.

She couldn’t tell her mother she hated the idea of having children, much less bringing them into this horrible world. Maybe I would.

Now, if I went up to my old room, left as it was the day I stormed out, maybe no one would notice me.

“Jimbo. You came?”

Alex, Elaine’s husband, had been hiding out back.

“Your wife dragged me here under threat of death. I had no choice.” And wait for it…

“Everyone has a choice, Jimbo.”

Jimbo. The cretin couldn’t even get my name right, or it was his way of treating me like I was nothing. I’d corrected him for a few months and then given up. His contempt for me knew no bounds.

He was riding on her coattails, and that was a marriage that was heading for the rocks. He was a ‘player’. Snobby pretentious twit.

Elaine was still doing the rounds and had the limelight. Alex would wait a minute and then attempt to take it away.

My cue to leave. Before I ran into Angelique, Rogers long-time partner with no wedding date in sight, a pretentious girl with a phony French accent.

No one knew she had been a Playboy model and a porn actress before she met Roger.

We had a pact. I wouldn’t tell anyone, and she wouldn’t treat me condescendingly, but that was two years ago. She’d have to think the secret was safe.

If Sam made the move and started down the presidential path, the skeletons were not going to stay in the closet very long.

“James.” She had a nice voice and was alarmingly beautiful.

“Angelique.”

“Back for round three? I saw you arrive with Elaine, so perhaps not willingly?”

“Elaine made a special trip.”

“Then you can bet there’s trouble in paradise.” She smiled. “Try not to listen through keyholes.”

In other words, get the gossip; something is going on. Or not, I could never quite tell what she meant.

The noise level dropped, and everyone was grabbing a seat. Like musical chairs, the last man standing was the last man standing.

Mother saw me by the door. “Just grab a chair in the dining room, dear.”

“No need. I’m going up to my room to sulk. You lot feel free to talk about me. My situation hadn’t changed since the last time I was here, so I have nothing to add.”

“Don’t be like that. You are as much a part of the family as all of us.”

It sounded earnest and welcoming, but mothers all practised that line. What she was really saying was ‘please go so I can talk to Elaine’.

Dad was thinking, ‘son of the bloody milkman’, and Alex, ‘please leave and don’t come back’. Of course, without the ‘please’.

I shrugged. “I’ll be down for dinner. It’ll give you time to think up some insightful questions.”

Then I left, closing the sliding doors that felt like I was stepping from one world into another.

And bumped into Sam.

Who immediately motioned me to be quiet and follow him into the study up the passage. Inside, he closed the door.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m here yet.”

“Why. You’re the golden boy, just one step removed from Elaine. But if you…”

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“Running for office.”

“Why? Because you have a low-life brother. I’m sure no one cares.”

“No one does. No, there are bigger secrets than that that would come out, secrets I’m sure no one really knows about, or if they did, they would have told me.”

“What secrets?” I hardly thought an ex-porn actress would cause problems because nearly all of the current era presidents were known to dabble.

“That’s what I’m here to find out. And you are the only one no one cares about. I need your help.”

“I’m a useless security guard.”

“You are the only one who hadn’t got an axe to grind out of that lot in that room. I’m sure if I asked you to give me a one-sentence description of each of them, it would be caustic but true.”

“I can’t help you. Haven’t you got staff who do that sort of thing?”

“I can’t trust any of them. There’s no loyalty, just a paycheck. But tomorrow, they’d sell me out for twenty pieces of gold. It’s politics at its finest. So, are you in?”

“Just you and me?”

“Just you and me. Shake on it. Your word is your bond.”

“And you being a politician…”

“I get it. I do. But yes. I give you my word.”

I shook his hand

This had all the hallmarks of a gag they had all thought up before I got here, and it was going to explode in my face. Sam was the last person I could trust and would.

“Now what?”

“We go in and work the room.”

Why did I feel like this was a setup of the worst order? They could have just found an old girlfriend to humiliate me, but no, Sam and Elaine were always trying to outdo each other at my expense.

At least when it was over, I could leave. And this time, I would go where neither of them could find me.

…

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 17

One of the hazards of writing can be being continually critical of your own work. I’m guilty as charged.

But in writing to a plan and in only 30 days, having to edit 50,000 words, there is no time to be critical.

Except…

So far down the track, I should be writing, not being critical.

But the thing is, I’m finding that I have to go back three chapters and read them through to pick up the thread. It’s not because it’s changed in any way from the plan; it’s just that I’m finding it hard to edit to a plan when usually I fly by the seat of my pants.

The trouble with doing that, it gives rise to considering changes, and right now there’s no time for change.

I have 13 days to hold it together.

And 13 is an unlucky number, isn’t it?

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 90

Day 90 – Writing Exercise – The case of the missing passport

…

There is nothing worse than being in a foreign country and not having your passport.

Or lose it and not know where you lost it.

Or you hid it in what you thought was a safe place, and when you went back, it was not there.

And worse again, know that someone had been in your room, someone you did not want to think would take it.

Those were the choices.

And sitting in a small room in a very large building with a reputation for those going in not necessarily ever coming out again, all of that was cycling through the army head.

There were bigger issues in play, and it was going to be interesting to see how this played out, because in the final wash-up, no matter what happened to me, someone else was in for a very nasty surprise.

…

My arrival was not without incident, and going through immigration, where I should have been treated as just another member of the consular staff, I had been detained at the airport.

First time ever.

And, of course, not unexpected.

At the briefing before I got on the plane, three people were sitting at the table. It was unusual because these meetings were usually in a back-alley Cafe where no one cared who you were or what you were.

It bothered me because it had been done in haste, and in my experience, urgency led to mistakes and mistakes led to disaster.

One of our embassies had a traitor.

It couldn’t be handled internally because the notification from an anonymous source said they couldn’t trust anyone, from the head of station down. That, in itself, sent shockwaves through the man who was obviously in charge of the investigation.

“This matter is urgent. The PM is going there to sign a historic trade deal and a security deal that is not being advertised. This allegation makes it a security nightmare. You will have a week to find out if this is true, and if it is, who.”

“How are you going to explain my sudden arrival?”

I’d seen the activity log for the past year, a rather odd document to add to a briefing package, but it highlighted one simple thing: staff rotations were minimal. The government also required a full biography of incoming staff and their function.

“Additional help to finalise the draft trade deal document, a specialist in such matters.”

“Which I am not.”

Another of those sitting around the table leaned forward. “That’s my job, to bring you up to speed.”

Less and less I was liking this. A knee-jerk reaction, at best.

Proper operations took weeks to put in place. I wasn’t going to ask about the pedigree of this one.

“You will be a high-level trade negotiator. You just need to know the basics and get the team over the line.”

“And no one will know anything else?”

“We will be asking the head of station to provide a full background on staff involved in the development of the deal, and their counterparts in the government. He will not know who you really are.”

But will, if he has even half a brain, know something is afoot.

“And that’s not going to raise suspicions. If the note is legitimate, then one person will know. And by implication, if this is a false flag, then…”

I didn’t finish because we all suddenly knew what the stakes were. We would be handing them a spy.

That briefing didn’t end well.

…

I was not a spy.

Far from it, I was a fix-it specialist who sometimes got thrown in at the very deep end.

Ostensibly, I was a lowly consular clerk from one of the West Indies islands, sent there several months ago to de-stress from a previous mission in Europe that had gone terribly wrong.

I had anonymity, was not on any radars, and was very adept at blending in. No one in my previous station knew I existed.

It’s why, when I arrived at the airport, I only got as far as the immigration desk before alarm bells were going off.

It should have been a rubber stamp in the passport of one Alexander Blaine.

It was not.

They knew I was here to join the consular staff, and they knew my life history better than I knew my own.

But, for simplicity’s sake, it mirrored my real-life history.

There, after being taken aside by a man with a scar, and a very severe expression and two soldiers who looked like they wouldn’t need much of an excuse to shoot me, I was brought to an interrogation room.

At least there was no table covered in interrogation tools

I didn’t have to wait long before an immaculately dressed officer who was not police came in, quietly closing the door behind him.

The affable interrogator, the one who wants you to be his friend, the one who asked endless oblique questions, then slips in the doozy.

“Mr Blaine, I presume?”

“I am.”

He moved from the door to the other seat, then stood behind it. Looking down, establishing a position of power.

“You did not ask or protest about being detained.”

“Why would I? I expect you have a reason for why I’m here.”

“You are a new embassy official.”

That wasn’t the reason, but from this point on, I was looking for tells, a sign of a reaction to a question or answer he was not expecting.

“Temporary. They sent me to help work on the trade agreement details.”

“You are an expert?”

“That’s a much overused and maligned word. Expert, no, experienced, yes, but in getting deals over the line more than anything else. Fresh eyes, you know, often see what others can’t.”

“The same could be said for spies?”

There it is. A bit more direct than most, but he was relaxed, the manner and atmosphere friendly, the delivery almost conversational.

“I guess if you read John Le’carre or Charles Cumming perhaps. I am an avid reader of spy novels. Or Sherlock Holmes. He picked up those small things. Me, not so good. Is there something wrong? If there is, my quick study of your content was wrong.”

“Another oddity, wouldn’t you say?”

“In my case, no. The government handout on your country was at least six years out of date, so I dug deeper. The mark of a half-decent diplomat is to at least know the customs and history of the country you are going to work in. And of course, the power of observation. Would you not do so if you came to my country?”

Not an answer he wanted. His expression changed very quickly before the benign one came back.

He asked for an example.

I gave him six with historical and historical context.

“Where were you last?”

“England.

“Before that?”

I was going to say Scotland, but something told me he knew a lot more than I thought he did.

“West Indies.”

“By and large, a place you would not want to leave.”

“No. But I go where I’m told to go. Until I get to be 40 years old. Our government doesn’t always do things that make sense.”

“What government does?”

He walked over to the door and opened it. “Behave, Mr Blaine, and we will not see each other again.”

“I fully intend to, Sir.”

…

If my arrival at the arrivals gate to the country raised suspicion, my arrival in the foyer of the embassy made that event look more like my first day at a new kindergarten.

I did not believe that the receptionist didn’t know that I was coming. My imminent arrival had been signalled three days before I landed, and yet here I was, waiting like an asylum seeker in the waiting room.

Had the ambassador simply forgotten?

I had read up on and memorised the names and faces of the thirteen permanent staff, and the seven temporary members of the trade talks negotiating team.

There were no immediate red flags, but there were questions on several. Gaps that needed explanation.

Fifteen minutes after I sat down, the head of station, or the Embassy Security chief, David Forster, came out.

“I am sorry, Mr Blaine, but we all got our wires crossed, and the dates mixed up. The Ambassador is not here at the moment and forgot to pass on the information about your impending early arrival. The day in the calendar was for tomorrow. I had to call London to get confirmation.”

Not the ambassador himself? It was more likely he was sending a photograph to a colleague and asking for more serious information about me. Security chiefs were usually old spies who worked in, or with, the clandestine world, or could still be in the employ of MI5.

With any luck, he might not get very much. I had been assured that my file was one that matched my new identity, but I’d had such assurances before.

“Would you like to follow me?’

I didn’t, but that was just me after a long day of travelling.

“Of course.”

We walked through the employees-only door into the rather interesting, at least to me, world of the British Diplomatic Service.

From the entrance to the security chief’s office wasn’t far, but it afforded me glimpses of 8 staff members and their locations. There were very discreet glances, and no sign of the trade team. I suspect they were on a different floor.

He followed me into the office and shut the door. I got the impression it wasn’t shut often because it had got larger than the frame and was stuck before it could fully close.

We sat. “Any trouble getting through the airport?”

I suspect there may have been a call to the embassy before the officer came to see me.

“Yes, actually. I was pulled out of the line and taken to an interview room. Some military type in an immaculately uniform asked me a few questions.”

“Sounds like it was Inspector Mecat, the head of the MI5 equivalent in this country. There are also secret police, and you don’t want to tango with them. Very nasty. Very, very nasty.”

Then I won’t, I said to myself.

“Do we work with the police and Mecat’s people?”

“Mecat? If we need to, otherwise we stay the hell away from them. And the secret police. You’ll see them around, part of the new government.”

“And if either arrests me?”

“Then you are on your own. Your specific instructions, which I’m sure you were given in the memo, are that you’re here to do your job and nothing else. That you have chosen to live away from the sanctuary of the embassy wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but others have and have not got into trouble.”

Good to know, but the warning was there. I also got the feeling he was not across my real purpose there, and was making a guess, and that remark, ” You’re on your own, told me that he believed I was not just for the trade agreement.

“I’m just following instructions from above. Is there something going on here that they don’t know about?”

“Nothing more than working in a country with a quasi-dictatorial government. It’s no different to some of the embassies in Africa. I see you’re from Jamaica station. What were you doing there?”

As if he didn’t know. I could see the MI5 training, sneaking out from under the forced affability, and if he was not a spook, or of recent vintage, then I would be very surprised.

“Sorting out people who think they can travel to another country and behave inappropriately. I was working on a trade deal there, but that sort of went badly. It turned out to be almost a holiday. I asked for something better, and here I am.”

“Your qualifications are noted as negotiator, and that you started in commerce and trade. Odd, you were not part of the original team.”

So he had delved into the cover file.

“I’m told I have many talents by my friends, but I always think they’re having a lark. We all do whatever we can these days. No diplomatic job has a single focus. But I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”

He gave me a long, hard look, the sort you give to an adversary just before the boom is lowered.

“As you say. The place doesn’t run itself, and when the ambassador is out, well, you know the drill.”

I did and stood. “Just point me in the direction of the team.”

….

There were several floors. The ground, the main entrance, guarded and ready for invasions, big or small, the first, the main embassy offices, the second, conference rooms and offices, the third, the ballroom, cafeteria and amenities, fourth and fifth, accommodation.

We went up one floor and to the conference room where the segment members of the team were sitting. They were in the middle of a discussion when we appeared in the doorway.

He introduced me and left.

Mark Ryder was the leader. He had been informed I was coming and had sent a strongly worded reply saying I wasn’t needed. He was going to be a hostile

Next to him, a middle-aged woman, the sort who was dedicated to the job, Professor Annie Jenkins, Oxford-trained and prone to speaking plainly, sometimes too plainly.

Next to her, Bonnie Carson, early twenties, severe expression, personal assistant to the Professor, but an Economics graduate with an M.B.A, and some others like Art History.

On the other side, James Williams, a lawyer, worked on major cases that involved political legal matters and constitutional law. A man who takes matters very seriously.

Next to him, Jamie Lawson, also a lawyer, one who didn’t take himself seriously, has a current relationship with a local woman, one he hadn’t told anyone else about.

And last, Jane Porter. She was an enigma. I read her resume, and it was just that fraction too good. Yes, she had been at the places she said she had, but I don’t think the qualifications attained were accurate.

She was a last-minute addition, replacing a girl who got sick the day before the team was to leave, and it remained unexplained what caused her illness.

Jane Porter was at the top of my list of suspects.

“So,” Ryder said, after leaving just the right amount of squirm time before addressing me, “just what are the lords and masters in the ivory tower up to?”

Did I say he was noted for his disparagement of the management of government departments being run by the privileged few, men he believed were only there by title and not experience or know-how?

He was right, of course, but it was suicide to say it out loud.

I shrugged. “That you will have to ask those back in the ivory tower. I got a memo saying get on a plane and get here, and that you would fill me in. So,” I said as I dragged a chair out from under the table, noisily, and dropped my laptop on the desk with a bang, “you tell me what kind of shit-fest you’ve got going here that I get dragged halfway around the world to sort it out?”

…

Note in file: does not handle confrontation well.

It was true. I knew the sort and had to deal with them since I left university, even in university if it came to that.

The two hours it took to get up to speed were illuminating. The problems were not the deal; the problem was with the government’s attitude to matters relating to human rights.

That was the reason I was given back in London, and not the Ryder nebulous excuse that their negotiators didn’t like several clauses relating to the mining and export of rare earth minerals.

No one wanted to tackle it head-on. We could not in all conscience accept a product that was mined by children who were basically slave labour working in horrendous conditions.

The government had countered with a tour of the mine sites, and the accompanying media teams got a completely different view of the operation. The reality, photos smuggled out of the real working conditions, showed a different side.

But it was the same in quite a few third-world countries, countries we dealt with, for the sake of helping their people. Here, we had done the same, but it seemed the ruling elite got richer and the rest remained poor, living in squalor.

Ryder had the evidence, the toss wanted him to take it up with the negotiators, but he was reluctant. I suspect he had broached the subject, and they came back aggressively.

I had no authority to assume any responsibility, but I did deliver an envelope to his superior in London, and the relevant minister after the meeting ended.

He knew who they were from.

“Not the sort of words that would ever be sent by any other means than a hapless courier,” I said, once they’d passed from my hand to his.

“Seriously?”

“They don’t trust electronic messaging or mail services.”

“Who are you, really?”

“Diplomatic staff. Here to help in any way I can.”

“This is about the rare earth minerals, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know precisely. You just need to add a clause that says that the company in charge of the mining must adhere to international laws regarding the employment of minors.”

“I spoke to their head negotiator on the issue, and he assured me they complied with all the international protocols, but for the sake of good order, said things would go smoother if we just took them at their word.”

“Then I suspect you will be between a rock and a hard place. I’ll be here until the minister comes or not.”

He was not pleased.

…

I’d been there for three days and covered everyone in the embassy, including a gathering on the third floor to introduce me to everyone.

The Ambassador was back from a neighbouring country and greeted me like I was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years. He was the perfect man for the job, with a disarming manner and cheerful attitude. Bombs would be falling around him, and that smile would be there, telling everyone it was just a minor inconvenience.

What was clear, he and Ryder did not like each other at all, and he and the professor did not like each other at all.

Forster introduced me to each of the staff, and only one gave me a bad vibe, if it could be called that, Allison Dupre. She had a French accent, somewhat forced, late twenties, perhaps older, and my impression; she was trying to look like something she was not.

When we shook hands, which surprised me, I felt a sudden darkness coming over me. I thought she seemed familiar, but I didn’t recognise her as anyone I had met before.

She just didn’t recognise me at all.

The following night, as I was leaving, I saw Allison and Jane Porter in the middle of a heated discussion. I didn’t give it much thought. Such discussions were not rare, though usually an embassy’s staff were a tightly knit unit, especially in countries such as this.

Then, as luck would have it, Porter was going out, and I was a safe distance behind her. It was a breach of protocol to go out alone, especially in the circumstances. She was either very brave or very stupid.

I would check the next day if she had told anyone.

Meantime, I followed her to, of all places, the hotel where I was staying for the week, not one of the five stars, but a three and a half star special, picked randomly from one of those cheapest rate websites.

I considered not going in, but when I saw her go to the reception, have a short conversation, a shake of the head from the clerk, she went over to the lounge seats and picked one.

I shrugged and ambled in. She saw me at the same time I saw her and got up out of the seat.

Had Jane come to see me?

“Thomas.”

“Jane. But please call me Tom. It doesn’t sound as pompous.”

“Tom, then.”

“You shouldn’t be out alone; you do know that?”

“I wanted to see you away from the embassy and the prying eyes.”

“How do you know Ryder hasn’t got you under surveillance. I’ve seen at least two MI5 types trying to make themselves invisible. And I’m sure there are rules against fraternisation.”

“Is that what you think this is?”

“No, but it’s more about what others might construe it to be. That’s just the world we live in.”

Where was this going?

“You’re the one they sent out to find the traitor.”

Which meant she was either the instigator or the target. If she were the latter, then I was just exposed. Perhaps I was dealing with someone very clever. We moved to a quiet corner where I could see everyone else.

“What traitor?” I put on my much-practised benign expression and looked appropriately surprised.

“I put in coded messages, and days later, here you are “

“Coincidence, I assure you. I was yanked out of Jamaica to help get this trade deal over the line. I am not happy about it. And if there is this traitor, and I’m assuming it’s in the embassy, and one of the staff, the person to take it to is Forster, head of security.”

“I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could kick him. Tried it on the first day after I arrived. God’s gift to women, he said. Allison thinks he’s a legend and just told me he was hers.”

It was wrong on so many levels

“His problem, not yours. Ours. She’s also meeting up with one of those secret police types. Even in civvies, you can tell. She’d been here before, on an archaeological dig.”

OK, that wasn’t in the briefing papers.

“How do you know that?”

“She told me. Then, I figured that the reason why the government always seemed to know what we were planning before we told them was from a leak, and she’s it.”

“I think Foster’s would know if that was the case. Logically speaking, if he was responsible for knowing everything about the people in his purview.”

Then, something that really bothered me. Allison was walking from the life lobby to the front door, almost disguised, and had another guest not dropped his briefcase, I would have missed her.

Moments after Allison passed through the main entrance, Jane’s phone buzzed. She looked at and stood, almost too quickly.

“Sorry. Just forget I said anything. It’s clear you’re not who I thought you were.”

And then left, almost running.

If I was not mistaken, if I were to go up to my room, I would find that it had been searched. I’m not sure what that meant, but I had to guess. Forster had just used two staff members in a clever operation, one to distract, the other to search.

They would find nothing.

It meant that Forster was resourceful. He knew where I was staying, and I hadn’t told anyone exactly where I was.

This was the decoy room, the one I did tell them about. It looked like I was staying in the room, but I was not.

Just the same, I went up and checked. The seals were broken. Everything looked the same, but the photos I’d taken of where everything was placed were slightly askew. Hurried.

My list of one became a list of three.

…

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life. Again.